Anais and Leonard had a daughter, Gertrude, in 1948. Anais wrote and occasionally taught elementary school. She published two novels and four collections of short stories. She died in 1972, from complications during kidney surgery. Leonard died in ’89.

Maybe because Esther is so young, she cannot conjure these last years of Anais. She tries to, not wanting to abandon her to them; she pinches crinkles into her skin, lets out her waist, and clouds her eyes, but seeing this Anais, Esther feels an aching pity and cannot hold the picture long.

The letter Esther returns to is one of Leonard’s, his disordered, birdish script.

Anise,

I wish you’d send me a picture of yourself instead of poetry. Rather, I wish you’d send me a picture of yourself in addition to the poetry because I don’t want you to think that I don’t appreciate the poetry. You’re awfully clever, but cleverness, not meaning you any offense, has got a limited aesthetic value, and I’m starting to forget your pretty face. As I recall it now, you’ve got a pimple in the center of your forehead and eyes like an old woman and three witch warts on your chin. Is this correct? Please do let me know.

My bunkmate—Georgie—was so drunk last week he pissed in my shoes, so be grateful you aren’t here to look after me. I’d tell you a good story about that, but that’s about all the story there is. See if you can do me one.

Have to sleep soon and want to get this out to you rather than wasting time thinking of more to say.89

Love, Leonard

Of course he would expect her to wash piss out of his shoes.

Esther skips along after that. She omits the letters from Victoria, which are dull and mostly the same: “Hope you are well.” “I am not well and here is why.” “I worry that you aren’t dieting.” Leonard’s letters are better reading than the rest, excluding Anais’s, but there are very few of her own letters in her papers. There’s less sweetness further in, more fondness, amusement, a little creeping resentment, but he loved her, or he seems to have loved her.

It’s not a problem for Esther that he loved her. For Esther’s understanding of her, at least. It is not proof that she loved him, nor is it proof that she couldn’t have loved him and also loved women. Anais could have loved her husband and still have meant to write so delicately and powerfully about what she did. Esther is not sure why she dislikes reading his letters so much.